“Why, if we were all as industrious as you, little Busybody, we should begin to work as soon as we could crawl, and there would be a bad thing!”
“Do you mean,” returned the little creature, with a flush suffusing her face, “bad for your backs and your legs?”
“No, no, no,” said Eugene; shocked—to do him justice—at the thought of trifling with her infirmity. “Bad for business, bad for business. If we all set to work as soon as we could use our hands, it would be all over with the dolls’ dressmakers.”
“There’s something in that,” replied Miss Wren; “you have a sort of an idea in your noddle sometimes.” Then, in a changed tone; “Talking of ideas, my Lizzie,” they were sitting side by side as they had sat at first, “I wonder how it happens that when I am work, work, working here, all alone in the summertime, I smell flowers.”
“As a commonplace individual, I should say,” Eugene suggested languidly—for he was growing weary of the person of the house—“that you smell flowers because you do smell flowers.”
“No I don’t,” said the little creature, resting one arm upon the elbow of her chair, resting her chin upon that hand, and looking vacantly before her; “this is not a flowery neighbourhood. It’s anything but that. And yet as I sit at work, I smell miles of flowers. I smell roses, till I think I see the rose-leaves lying in heaps, bushels, on the floor. I smell fallen leaves, till I put down my hand—so—and expect to make them rustle. I smell the white and the pink May in the hedges, and all sorts of flowers that I never was among. For I have seen very few flowers indeed, in my life.”
“Pleasant fancies to have, Jenny dear!” said her friend: with a glance towards Eugene as if she would have asked him whether they were given the child in compensation for her losses.